


Renascence

by Mairi Nathaira (Tara)



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Classical Music, Gen, Ghosts, Humour, Music, Piano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-08 08:52:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tara/pseuds/Mairi%20Nathaira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, Ron meets a ghost who changes his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Renascence

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 Ginger Lust project-a-thon using prompt #35. Thanks to Malcolm for giving me the plot bunny. Many thanks to SS and DM for reading this and telling me their opinions. A big hug goes to my beta, CR.

_ Through our great good fortune, in our youth our hearts were touched with fire. It was given to us to learn at the outset that life is a profound and passionate thing._ \-- Oliver Wendell Holmes

* * *

  
Once upon a time, there lived a boy named Ron. He was the sixth child of seven siblings. He was nothing special; he was just normal -- dreadfully normal -- but he felt like he didn't quite fit in with his brothers and sister.

First, there was Big Boy Bill, the eldest son, the firstborn, the one who became the Head Boy at Hogwarts.

Then came Charismatic Charlie, who specialised in Quidditch as an excellent Seeker. When he finished his schoolings, he embarked on a journey of adventure and intrigue: he became a dragon tamer in Romania.

After Charlie, there was Perfect Percy, _Prefect Percy_, the one who always followed the rules by the book, the one who always had a stick up his lovely arse. He followed Bill's path and eventually became a Head Boy, too.

By contrast, there were the twins, Funny Fred and Goofy George, the two rambunctious and rowdy pranksters who always knew how to get someone to laugh, with the exception of Percy and their mum.

Amongst all the lads, there was a single lass in this giant family; Gutsy Ginny was her name, and she was the darling, spoilt baby whom everyone adored.

Lastly, there was Ron. The youngest son, but not the youngest child. He was always the one overshadowed by everyone else. He learned, quite early in his life, that if he wanted to receive attention, he had to have something unique and different from everyone else. Yet no matter how much he tried, he could not find that something to set him apart from his siblings. He did have his chess skills, but it wasn't enough for him. Throughout the years, he always compared himself to his siblings. He was smart, but not like Percy. He had plenty of friends as a young child, but he wasn't as popular as Bill. He tried to be humorous, but Fred and George took that spotlight easily. He tried to be well-coordinated like Charlie so he could be a great Quidditch player, but that proved to be futile. Finally, there was no way he could compete against Ginny since Ginny had one thing he'd never have: the feminine vibes.

At the age of eleven, he thought he had finally found whatever it was to make his family and the others see him in a different light. He befriended the legendary Harry Potter, and for the first couple of weeks, he felt like he was in a fantasy land as he chattered and nattered with his famous friend.

However, he realised that this was not enough. Especially after when Hermione Granger became their friend. Ron liked both of his friends, but with Harry's fame and Hermione's intelligence in schoolwork, he was overshadowed once again.

He still longed for the unique skill he wanted to show everyone just how he could also be good at something. He needed something more, something more distinctive.

Little did he know that his life would change drastically soon.

* * *

  
There were always stories about Hogwarts being sentient, that it has its own soul. Some of the Muggle-borns talked about how maybe there was a hidden room in its core that looked like some futuristic "Mother Brain" type machinery that all ran on magic.

Ron highly doubted the "mashine" theory; he also didn't feel like the ancient castle was alive. Well, except on his first day there. When he had first stepped inside, he felt something pulsating through him, its waves reaching deep inside his bones, and he shivered hard, nearly collapsing to the ground. But just as it had hit him, it quickly disappeared, and he chalked it off as the nerves getting to him -- along with Fred and George's horror stories of Hogwarts messing with his mind.

So despite all the theories and stories, Ron didn't care about the castle having a brain or not.

It was a shame since the castle decided to teach Ron a lesson.

* * *

  
"Whoa!" With a loud thump, Ron found himself on his side on a carpeted floor that was soft and fluffy. Dazedly, he sat up as he tried to sort out what had just happened to him.

He had been in a corridor -- a very dark corridor -- leaving the library to head back to the Gryffindor common room. While he treaded carefully through the dimness, passing by a statue that was labelled "Bach", he had seen something white. Despite the lack of light, he saw that it was a portrait. A portrait of pure whiteness, like granulated sugar, and in the middle was a simple painting of a palm in the shades of grey.

Unsure where the urge came from, he had lifted his hand, aligned his to the painting, and lightly pressed against it. As soon as his skin met the coarseness of the portrait, there was a bright blue glow, and Ron felt himself being sucked into the canvas where he landed on that plush floor.

Slowly, he stood up and looked carefully around his surroundings. It was a small room, light and airy, with large windows on all four walls, its ivory curtains fluttering from the gentle breezes. At each window, there were small wooden tables, and on top were different pots with beautifully arranged bouquets of flowers. He recognised roses, tulips, carnations, and daisies from the bunch. On one of the tables, Ron saw neat piles of "record dings" and an ancient looking "grammarfone".

Yet in the centre of the room was a large, black, grand piano. Its finishing was sleek, all nicely polished, and the ivory keys looked like it had been never been played at all. Drawn by its beauty, Ron found himself inching towards the magnificent instrument.

All of the sudden, something silvery appeared in front of him, and Ron promptly stepped backwards, tripped over his two feet, and landed on his bottom, staring up at a very scary looking ghost.

With wide eyes, he studied the ghost's wild mane protruding from its head, the eye-patch that covered its left eye, the long scar down the side of its right cheek, and its gigantic wart at the tip of its nose. Aside from the gruesome facial descriptions, he looked at what looked like an expensive walking stick, and he saw, through the open robes, an outfit that looked to be straight out of the 1920s or 1930s.

The ghost looked at Ron with a solemn expression, and when it opened its mouth, a brash, loud voice spoke up. "Your name, lad!"

"R-r-onald," he managed to squeak.

The ghost leaned closer. "Arnold?"

"No, no!" Finding his courage, he picked himself off the ground and straightened up. "Ronald, but I go by Ron." He looked back at the ghost, determined not to let something already dead frighten him like a ninny.

Ron felt his courage wobbling when he felt the scrutinising expression on him. He felt his hands turning clammy, and he wiped them on his robes. Yet he maintained his defiant look at the ghost.

The ghost nodded and grunted, "You will do." Raising his stick, he pointed towards the piano bench. "Sit!"

"What for?" Ron blinked at the luxurious piano and the matching bench.

"To play!"

Ron frowned and crossed his arms in front of his chest; the ghost was too pushy for his liking. "Play? I can't play this! And who are you? I've never seen you around Hogwarts before with the others."

"I've had better things to do than to socialise with these nincompoops; though I do control some of them, but that's not the point! For decades, I've been waiting for the castle to bring me a student worthy enough to become the next virtuoso pianist under my tutelage! At last, the castle has finally fulfilled my wish!" Until then, Ron never thought any ghost's eyes would twinkle, but this ghost's single eye sparkled quite brightly.

"Er, I think the castle made a big mistake."

"Nonsense. The castle is never wrong! Why, it's the smartest thing in the world, smarter than me!" The ghost finally realised he had yet to introduce himself. He bowed theatrically and announced, "I am Master Aslan Augustus Cledwyn, one of the many descendants of Gryffindor!"

"Um, nice to meet you," Ron said blandly. He quickly looked around and saw that there wasn't a door. Only the windows surrounded him, but Ron had a feeling that if he tried to leave through them, something bad might happen.

"Yes. Now, sit down at the piano and play!"

Ron bristled at Aslan's bossy attitude. "I told you, I can't play!"

Aslan stilled. "Are you serious? You really can't play?"

"Yes, so I think I should go. Maybe someone else will drop on by . . . "

"Hold it!" Ron wondered if Aslan was incapable of talking at a normal voice level, but his thoughts ended there as Aslan floated closer and went around him in circles.

It was quite annoying and creepy to have a ghost do that. "Oi! Will you stop that?!"

Aslan ignored him and muttered, "Yes, yes. I see potential. Those hands . . . yes . . . he's pretty tall." He finally stopped floating and moved in front of Ron. "Have you ever played any instruments in your life? And are you thirteen?"

"Eleven, and I've never played an instrument before."

"Well, then do you want to learn, lad?"

"Er," Ron said, glancing at the posh instrument and back at Aslan. "What's the catch?"

"Nothing, really. You just need to set aside some time every day and develop self-discipline to do this. If you become my student, I'd be most grateful!" Aslan floated over to one of the windows and looked outside. "I may not look like it, but I was a music educator. Music was my life, and I always felt like my purpose was to teach and guide young students to blossom into their talents. When I died, I'd been in the middle of listening to the most beautiful rendition of Tchaikovsky's 'Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-flat Minor' by one of my best students. I only regret that I couldn't hear the entire song.

"So you see, I do want to teach you. Your fingers and hands -- you have the making of a virtuoso pianist, lad! Also, while most wizards and witches only see music as a frivolous activity, I have a personal theory that music makes you a stronger wizard and witch in terms of magical ability. I've seen a strong correlation where one's level of musicianship affects their magic in a good way. I can't promise you it will make you absolutely powerful, but it will nevertheless have a positive effect on you."

Although he wished Aslan didn't talk so much, the offer really tempted Ron. All his life, he'd wanted to do something different, and this might be what he'd been waiting for. Sure, his family wasn't the musical type, but with that many children to feed, dress, and take care of, there wasn't enough money for this kind of pastime. Also, the way Aslan praised his hands and fingers made him feel good. He had always felt tall and gawky for his age, but perhaps there were some advantages to his physical form. Then there was the theory on how music strengthens one magic, and that interested him more.

Taking a deep breath, Ron said, "Okay. I'll give it a try."

From that day on, Ron's life changed forever.

* * *

  
"What note is that?" Aslan gestured towards the sheet music.

"Um . . . D?"

"Very good." He then pointed to the one on the bass clef. "That?"

Poor Ron hated bass clef. He really did. Treble clef was easier to grasp, but bass clef? Trying to figure out bass clef was proving to be a nightmare. Frowning and muttering, he studied the note and guessed, "A?"

"No, no, no, no! It's 'C'!" Aslan ran his hands through his wild mane. "Again. Name me those notes. Only the bass clef ones."

Ron let out a frustrated sigh, but he gritted his teeth and clenched his fist as he started all over.

When he left -- he had to always jump out of the correct window to come out of the portrait -- his eyes were nearly criss-crossed from his lessons.

* * *

  
Ron huffed and puffed as he finally found the portrait. While he now believed that the castle was indeed alive and sentient, he couldn't help but think it really hated him since the portrait liked to move all around the castle, never staying in one place. Usually, Ron would just have to keep an eye out for a statue of one of the many Bachs, but sometimes those were hidden in the shadows, making it impossible to find and making him late, and today was definitely one of his late days. He cringed before he placed his hand on the portrait, knowing that Aslan would surely lecture him for being late.

Aslan didn't fail him.

Twenty minutes later, Ron had his hands on the keys, and he practiced the scales and other piano exercises that Aslan assigned him.

"Excellent, lad! You have good ears when it comes to rhythm and tempos, but your posture is a mess, and your fingers! Keep them curved!"

"But it's much easier to have them flat out, sir!" Ron protested.

"Well, no student of mine will play like their hands and fingers are made of stiff wood! Now, sit up straight and start from the top!"

Ron groaned and forced his fingers to bend the right way, and by the time he left, his poor fingers and hands were aching.

How sad it was to know that he had an essay to complete when he returned to the common room.

* * *

  
Ron felt himself being rudely awakened. Aslan had been shouting in his sensitive ears.

Groaning, he rubbed his sleepy eyes and asked, "Why are you yelling?"

"Because you've fallen asleep during this beautiful passage!"

"It's . . . it's '_Largo_'! Of course I'd sleep! It's so ruddy slow that I can't help but feel like it's a lullaby!"

Aslan sniffed at him. "A lullaby? Is that would you call this marvellous composition? A _lullaby_?"

Ron rolled his eyes at the unnecessary dramatics displayed by his teacher. "Can we listen to something more upbeat?"

"You have no class."

Ignoring his teacher, Ron pulled out a different record, one labelled _The Rite of Spring_, and Aslan groaned.

"Not Stravinsky."

"I like him," Ron insisted.

Aslan grimaced. "I suppose he's a whole lot better than those atonal drivels you also like."

Ron only grinned.

* * *

  
Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and the end of the school term came closer.

Ron had to admit, it had been an exciting year. Being around Harry Potter was never a bore, and in between all his socialising, his schoolings, and his adventures with the Philosopher's Stone, he still managed to keep up his piano studies clandestinely. Harry and Hermione remained in the dark about his lessons; he had come up with an excuse on how he liked to go outside -- despite the weather -- and walk for an hour or two, and they just accepted it.

He was glad his friends and his brothers never questioned him. He had yet to tell anyone of his secret lessons. He wasn't sure why he was keeping quiet about this, but he didn't want them to know until he could be a better pianist. Then again, he most likely wanted to keep this as a secret from his family and friends because it was a secret that only he could be privy to, what with him coming from a large family where privacy was nearly impossible to have.

The last few months have taught him a lot about himself. Although he still had a long way to go with the piano, he genuinely enjoyed playing it. When he played, when Aslan would shut up, and when his fingers touched the cool keys, he allowed himself to escape from reality. He wasn't sure what it was about the piano, but it became his way to cope with all the stress and worries in his life.

Soon, summer would come, and he'd be facing two whole months without the piano and the lessons from Aslan, and that surprisingly depressed him.

But for once, luck was on Ron's side.

* * *

  
"Hello . . . Headmaster?!" Ron gaped unattractively at Albus Dumbledore, who at the moment was playing a superb piece. He listened to the unknown tune and watched the way the old hands fly around the keys. Soon, Albus came to an end, and Ron applauded loudly.

"Wonderful, Albus, wonderful!" Aslan boomed out. "If only you had persisted with that talent of yours instead of choosing your current path."

Albus stood up and chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mirth. "Of course you'd say that. You only keep reminding me that once a day."

"It's a shame, really. You were one of my few students who did have potential."

Ron spoke up then. "You used to teach the headmaster?"

Aslan nodded. "Yes, when I was still alive. Of all my students, I'd say Albus here was the best. Most of my students would only have the technical skills or the capability to express themselves in their performance at a level that surpasses Chopin or Beethoven, but your headmaster here had both."

"He's lying." Albus winked at Ron. "I wasn't that great."

"Don't be so modest. You really were great, much greater than that fool Riddle would ever be."

"Riddle?" Ron asked.

Aslan waved his ghostly hand. "One of my last students while I was alive. That lad loved the piano. He had the technical skills rivalling Albus, but he had the utmost difficulty of expressing himself since he didn't have the artistic flair."

"Now, now. Let's not dwell on the past." Albus raised an eyebrow, and Aslan closed his mouth.

At that moment, Ron realised that his headmaster really was the most powerful wizard alive if he could even shut someone like Aslan up. "Sir, I don't mean to sound rude, but why are you here? You were never here before. At least not when I was here."

Albus turned to look at Ron, giving him a gentle look. "I've come to ask you something. Are you going to miss playing the piano over the summer?"

Ron wasn't sure where this conversation was going, but he figured he'd better tell the truth. "Er, yes."

"Then might I make a suggestion?"

Well, Ron certainly wasn't going to deny his headmaster from speaking, so he wordlessly nodded.

"I'll spell a portkey for you. Whenever you want to come here, you say the secret word, and it will bring you directly to this room. When you are done, you say the second secret word, and it will bring you back to where you activated the portkey first."

"Oh that's--" Ron stopped himself. There was a tiny matter with that clock in the Burrow.

As if reading Ron's mind, Albus continued, "When you're here, the location on certain clocks will say 'Playing in a field', so your family will only think you are playing near your home."

He was impressed. The headmaster had thought it all through for him. "Thank you, Headmaster."

"My pleasure. I have a feeling your talent will come in handy one day." Albus' face took on a faraway look. It faded, and then he pulled out a small object and gave it to Ron. It was a bottle-cap. "This is your portkey."

Ron accepted the portkey. "What about the secret words?"

"The word to activate it to come here is your middle name." Ron shuddered at this revelation. "The word to bring you back is the thing you hate the most." Ron blanched at the mere thoughts of spiders, and he only swallowed and bobbed his head.

"Er, thank you."

Albus gave Ron one last smile, an encouraging one, and he walked out the window that would take him back to the corridor.

"Now, let's practice your exercises," said Aslan, dominant as always.

* * *

  
The summer after his first year of Hogwarts proved to be really slow at the beginning. Aside from his usual bouts of chores and being around his rowdy family, Ron escaped on a daily basis to have some solace with Aslan and the piano.

Well, being with Aslan didn't quite give him the peace he preferred, but minus his grouchy teacher who always forgot he was dead, Ron didn't mind him. In fact, at times, their arguments were quite hilarious.

"You want to name this piano?"

Ron nodded as he slowly plunked out the latest piece he had to work on. "Yeah. I think it will make me feel closer to it than just calling it the 'Piano' all the time."

"Of all the oddest things to hear . . . I must say this is a first. Did you bother to name that chess set of yours?"

He hadn't. He never had the urge to do so, but with the piano, he wanted to. He wasn't sure why, though. "No."

Aslan floated around Ron. "If you were to name this, what would you call it?"

"Clarinda."

"Clarinda?"

Ron nodded. "I looked it up in my mum's names book. It means 'beautiful and clear'. I thought it was fitting since the piano does have a beautiful, clear sound."

"Oh, fine. Have it your way," Aslan grudgingly said.

And thus ended the story on how the piano became christened as "Clarinda".

* * *

  
"Hey, Aslan."

"How many times must I say call me 'Master Aslan'?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "Do you know anything about the Chamber of Secrets?"

"The what?"

"The Chamber of Secrets."

"No."

"Oh." Ron was disappointed. He had hoped Aslan would know something. He wanted to contribute something to their research on the mysterious chamber. But if Aslan didn't know anything, Ron didn't have anything to go on.

* * *

  
Ron stormed angrily down the corridor until he came upon the Bach statue, and he touched the portrait. Once in the hidden room, he yelled, "You mentioned teaching a guy named Riddle. Was it Tom Marvolo Riddle?"

"Yes."

"Did you know that Riddle is the same as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?!"

Aslan scowled at Ron's bellowing. "What are you so excited about?"

Briefly, Ron explained the whole incident with the Chamber of Secrets, Riddle's diary, and the near-death of his sister.

"I see." Aslan's face turned stoic. "So that's what happened to him."

"What? You mean you didn't know?"

"I was more concerned on looking for a new student than following Riddle's life after he finished Hogwarts. Though, I did know he was a descendant of Slytherin. A shame he turned out this way since Slytherin himself would have been terribly disappointed by all of this."

Ron sat on the bench, his whole body sagging. The excitement finally caught up with him, and he stared at the keys.

"Play."

"I'm too upset."

"Think of it as therapy. Play something to release your anger."

Silently, Ron lifted his hands and played the first song that came into his mind, a disjointed tune that matched his jumbled up emotions. When he finished, he looked at Aslan.

Aslan only smiled. Ron grinned back, glad that he'd never have to admit out loud that Clarinda gave him comfort that he couldn't receive anywhere else.

* * *

  
Another school year ended and another started. His third year started off strangely, what with all the Dementors hovering around the school. He hated it. Plus, there was the issue of him losing Scabbers, and his hatred towards that monstrosity Hermione owned. He despised that creature called Crookshanks.

That was why Aslan found him one day trying to compose a song.

"Ah, trying your hand on composing. Very good." Ron felt Aslan's ghostly presence behind him. "But . . . what kind of a song are you trying to write here?"

"I don't know," he grumbled, jotting down a note here and there on the parchment he brought with him. "I'm trying to come up with a song where it exemplifies my dislike towards this evil beast. But . . . "

"Yes?"

Ron shrugged. "It sounds too much like something Stravinsky would compose."

He smirked and laughed when he heard Aslan's groans and curses towards the composer he least liked.

* * *

  
"How's your leg?" Aslan asked, when Ron limped sorely to the bench.

"It'll be fine."

"Good. Let's hear you play this piece today."

But Ron wasn't able to concentrate. The whole Sirius Black escapade had been unexpected. Then again, he should know by now that anything dealing with Harry would be quite unexpected.

Unfortunately, Aslan wasn't putting up with Ron's apathetic attitude.

"Stop!" Aslan waved his hands angrily. "What's the matter with you?"

Ron jumped up, ignored the slight soreness in his leg, and glowered at his teacher. "Nothing. I just don't feel like playing right now."

"Then leave."

Ron gaped. This was the first time Aslan had ever told him to leave. "What?"

"One thing I always seem to have trouble with are students who hit puberty. This is when you all become quite unbearable. Leave. Come back when you're ready. Take a break."

"What if I never come back?" he challenged Aslan with a defiant stare.

"Then that's that. All I can say is if you're not interested, then there's no point in forcing you to do something you no longer love."

Ron frowned at the way his teacher easily accepted his proclamation instead of yelling at him. Honestly, he didn't want to give up this passion, but at the moment, maybe Aslan was right. Maybe he did need a break from all of this. "Fine. I'll take a break."

* * *

  
It turned out that was exactly what Ron needed. A break. Over the summer, he didn't go to Hogwarts once as he decided to relax and take it easy; he looked forward to the Quidditch World Cup, and when he went, he was moved by Viktor Krum's playing style. However, the attack after the game threw him off balance. He was slowly beginning to realise just how dangerous the real world was.

He also learned that he didn't really want to give up the piano. So upon returning to Hogwarts, he sought out Aslan, and their lessons resumed again. One of the first things Ron did during their lessons was to start on a new composition.

"What are you composing now, lad?"

Ron glanced up at Aslan. "I'm calling it 'Wronski Feint', after this one Quidditch move by this brilliant Seeker." As Ron explained, he tried to imagine the feelings of soaring through the skies. He imagined the excitement that came from being a famous Seeker, and he tried to capture those emotions in his musical notations.

Excitedly, he looked at Aslan. "I want this to be my first masterpiece."

Suffice to say, after the Yule Ball, he ripped his "masterpiece" up to shreds, too angry for words at the way Viktor had stolen Hermione away from him.

* * *

  
At the Quidditch World Cup, Ron realised just how dangerous reality was at times. At the end of the Triwizard Tournament, he found out how fragile life was.

A classmate had been killed. His best friend almost died.

That really shook Ron's world, and Ron escaped to the small room, with a piano and a ghost, and he cried. Neither the ghost nor the piano minded when his tears hit the keys.

* * *

  
Ron cursed his sweet head off and pounded away on poor Clarinda. He hated Draco bloody Malfoy. Not only was that guy an arse, but that arse couldn't even carry a proper tune! If Malfoy had sung something that wasn't so mocking, Ron would have so wanted to tell Draco that the tune was all wrong and utterly full of crap.

But Ron wasn't going to make that horrid song better than it needed to be.

He wanted to write a song about Draco, but he didn't. He had better things to do than think about that prick.

At least Aslan had some interesting stories to tell him about one member of the Malfoy family.

"I taught Lucius' cousin. That lad was tone-deaf, and he strutted around like a peacock. When I told him to play this one song, that peacock somehow broke his expensive piano by stomping on the pedal too hard. Let's just say his father was not pleased. That lad received the most dreadful beating I've ever heard in the next room. Be glad that you have some musical talent. The Malfoy family doesn't."

Ron grinned, but it faltered when he heard Aslan talk about _The Planets_. By now, after years of being with the ghost, he was truly sick of Aslan's commentary on all the planets in the solar system and how Holst's composition didn't do great justice.

* * *

  
"Aslan? Did you ever participate in any battles?" Ron asked, feeling quite depressed after the Battle of the Department of Mysteries.

"Are you mad, lad? I'm a musician, not a warrior!" Aslan twirled around in mid-air to face Ron with a shocked expression.

"Then how'd you get that scar and lose an eye?"

"Would you believe me if I said I accidentally stabbed my eye out and then grazed myself with the knife?"

". . . No."

"Well, fine. While I may have never really participated in battles or wars, I've had my fair share of tavern and pub fights. Mostly with other musicians who were jealous of my fame and skills."

Ron only stared strangely at his teacher. "Those must have been violent fights."

"They were pretty nasty, I'll admit."

"I hope no one ever died from it," Ron sighed as he thought of Sirius' death through the veil.

"Nah. Most of them ended up looking like me, except worse."

Sniggering, Ron flipped through the music to find the sonata he was practicing. "Well, at least you weren't a pansy."

"No, sir, I wasn't'! Now, enough chit-chat. Let's hear some Mozart."

* * *

  
In his sixth year, Ron learned just how difficult it was to be a teenager, especially when it came to dealing with girls. Hermione constantly pissed him off, and Lavender, as nice as she was, was a bit stifling and possessive. In fact, he learned just how jealous a girl can be over absolutely nothing.

"I must admit, Ron, why do you always go off on those 'walks' of yours?" Lavender asked one day when they were in the common room.

"Because I want to," he shortly responded.

Her eyes narrowed. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're sneaking off to be with someone else. Is it another girl? Who is it?"

Annoyed, Ron snapped, "Clarinda."

"I knew it! Who's that?! I don't know anybody at Hogwarts named Clarinda . . . " she trailed off, obviously racking her brains for anybody named that.

"Well, it's really none of your bloody business."

Pissed, she shoved Ron off the couch. "Fine! Be with her! You two-timing prat!"

As she stomped off, Ron stared at her with an amused smile. He didn't mind that she pushed him. He preferred Clarinda over her any day. At least Clarinda never talked back at him in a bitchy manner or called him Won-Won.

* * *

  
With all the news of people dying since his fourth year, Ron finally nearly experienced death himself.

It was something he never wanted to experience ever again.

At least him nearly dying finally ended that weird fight between him and Hermione, who had been really upset.

When Ron told Aslan why he had to miss out their lessons for a few days, Aslan surprised him by saying, "I'm glad you didn't die. The world would have been less interesting with you gone."

Ron responded to that by sputtering. "But I'm no one special. I've never been anything like Harry or my brothers and sister . . . "

Aslan reached out and touched Ron's lips. He shivered at the freezing sensation overcoming him. "Never say that, Ronald Weasley. You may not think so, but you are a force to be reckoned with, especially with your gift."

"My gift?"

"Yes," Aslan nodded, "your gift. You have the gift of being an artist, a musician, lad."

Ron mulled over Aslan's compliment. "You never told me anything like that before. You usually just say that I'm getting better."

"And you are. But at this rate, you will be a virtuoso. I've never been wrong with my intuition on finding gifted musicians. You're an interesting case, though. Most of my students are ones who I've trained since they were young, usually five or six years of age. You honestly surprised me. I'll admit, I was a bit sceptical of the castle bringing me you, but I'm glad I persisted with you."

For the first time in his life, Ron finally came to the conclusion that he was unique in his own way. Maybe, just maybe he would finally reach the point where he'd never feel like he was overshadowed by his family and friend.

"Enough sentimentalism for the day. Let's focus on your own composition and then I want to hear your performance of Liszt and Chopin."

* * *

  
"Why are you here? I thought you were busy saving the world?" Aslan gave Ron a flabbergasted look. Ron had told Aslan what was happening, and Ron told Aslan he wouldn't be able to do their lessons until the war ended. "Did the war end? I doubt that since I know Snape -- that bastard -- is still the headmaster."

"No," Ron said. He avoided looking at Aslan. Now that he was here, away from his friends and that dreaded locket, he didn't think he could admit to having ditching his friends.

A knowing frown came on Aslan's face. "I know you told me you were going to go on a hunt with your friends for something. Did you guys finish that quest?"

Ron shook his head, suddenly unable to speak.

"Ah, then by my guess, you've abandoned them."

He winced at the truthful words, which sounded harsh to his ears.

"You disappoint me."

That simple phrase brought more guilt to Ron, and he lashed out at Aslan. "Shut up! Just shut the fuck up! You don't know what I've gone through! You don't know anything! Don't you come to any conclusion without knowing what I went through!"

"Silence!" Aslan roared. Aslan's hair always made him look like a lion, but he currently looked more lion-like than ever.

Ron fell back in surprise, and he landed on the floor, looking up at Aslan much like the way they first met. Ron felt a huge amount of shame and guilt as he averted his eyes towards Clarinda, and nothing was said for a few minutes as Ron stifled back a sob. For the first time since the whole Horcrux business started, he let loose his suppressed emotions.

When Ron finished his breakdown, he explained and told Aslan everything. Despite all those years of having a student-teacher relationship, for the first time ever, he felt new respect towards his mentor.

Quietly, Aslan listened to Ron's story, and when Ron finished, Aslan didn't say anything for a long time. When he finally did say something, he didn't sound condescending or bossy; he sounded like a wise man who had lived for many years and who had experienced everything Ron was currently going through and more.

"I won't tell you what to do. I do admit I am disappointed that you would leave your friends like this, but maybe that's what you need. Like that break you took from the piano, perhaps you need to distance yourself from whatever is truly bothering you."

Aslan floated closer to Ron. "I'll let you be. You can stay here as long as you want. Just think what you need to do."

Ron nodded, his throat too tight to say anything, but he gave Aslan a grateful look, and Aslan left the room, leaving him alone.

Standing up, Ron wiped his face, and he walked over to Clarinda. He lifted the top up, and he stared at the off-white keys. He sat down on the hard, cold bench, and he pressed down a key. The small room soon filled with music. His playing was better than ever, despite not practicing for months. All those years of practice came to him as his muscles remembered its movement, its melody rushing and encompassing all around him. His hands flew to touch the black and the ivory keys, and his foot pressed hard onto the pedal.

Clarinda, as always, sounded lovely, and it soothed Ron as it was most certainly the only constant thing in his crazy life.

* * *

  
In the end, Ron returned back to his friends.

Before that, though, he stayed at Shell Cottage with his brother and sister-in-law, and he would return to Hogwarts where he secretly looked out for his sister and met up with Aslan to do some informal lesson. Most of the time, he just played as a way to get rid of his pent-up emotions, especially when he struggled to figure out a way to return back to his friends. Aslan understood Ron's state of mind, and didn't comment on anything except to not "break the bloody piano".

However, it was Aslan who helped him figure out how the Deluminator work, and he thanked and bid farewell to Aslan for the time being as he rejoined his friends on their quest.

Months passed, and Ron grew fidgety being away from Clarinda, and whenever his friends weren't looking, he drummed his fingers on the ground, on the tables, on whatever hard surface he could find, pretending them to be the piano he desperately missed.

When he finally had the chance to be reacquainted with a piano, he never would have expected it to be at Malfoy Manor.

But it was there, and it was what perhaps saved his life from Voldemort.

When Ron and his friends had arrived at the Manor, Hermione had been taken to be tortured, and he and Harry were left with Voldemort and a few other important Death Eaters in a vast room that held a majestic looking piano. It was grander than Clarinda, it was larger and more exquisitely carved than Clarinda, but it looked uninviting and cold unlike Clarinda's warm design. Still, Voldemort probably sensed something in Ron, and he had Pettigrew drag him to the piano.

Against his will, Ron was roughly forced onto the bench, which felt icier and harder than Clarinda's, and he heard the raspy voice ordering him to play.

In a normal situation, Ron would have been defiant, and he would have spoken up with a "Play what?". But he didn't since he knew that would bring death. Slowly, he lifted his hands, and he searched his mind for a song, playing the first thing that came to him.

It was one of his favourites because it was such a wild and powerful piece. It was one he always considered to be an unpredictable movement, and Ron liked it because of its unstableness. Although he hadn't played for months, the song, the third movement of "Moonlight Sonata" came to him naturally. He did make mistakes here and there -- he wasn't perfect -- but he drove through the song, never once stopping, never once looking up to see Voldemort or anybody else's reactions.

When he finished, he let out a ragged breath.

"I see you've been tutored by a former teacher of mine," Voldemort hissed in his ears,, coming up behind Ron. Shuddering, Ron forced himself to remain still.

"Was it Master Aslan Augustus Cledwyn?"

Ron nodded stiffly, and he nearly cringed at the evil laugh that came too close for his comfort.

"You do have potential, I see." In a bored voice, Voldemort ordered, "Put these two in the dungeon."

Once in the dank and dreary dungeon, Ron remembered Albus' statement on how his talent would "come in handy one day", and Ron knew that day had come. He briefly thought about how Albus should have been the one to teach Divination instead of that bat Trelawney, and that brought a small smile on his face.

That moment of delight quickly disappeared as he heard Hermione's cries of pain. Cries he would never forget as long as he lived.

* * *

  
Ron couldn't believe it. Voldemort was finally vanquished. The war had finally ended. By then, he had done more to prove himself as someone important. He had survived through death, through betrayals, and through guilt, and he had come out as one of the victorious ones. He did his part in the war, doing everything to the best of his ability, and he became a survivor.

While everyone celebrated and partied, Ron introduced Aslan to his family and friends, and that alone brought some interesting comments.

"What? You've been secretly studying the piano all these years? Those were your 'walks'?"

"You named a bloody piano 'Clarinda'?"

"That was your mysterious girlfriend that made Lavender jealous?"

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"So you managed to woo Voldemort into thinking you were a virtuoso?"

"Well, ickle Ronniekins does have the hands and the feet for it."

"Did Aslan order Peeves to torture the Death Eaters and us innocent bystanders to perform horribly on those instruments?"

Of all the comments, Ron laughed at the last one. Apparently the Bloody Baron wasn't the only one who could control Peeves. Aslan controlled the poltergeist very well, and he had indeed told Peeves to play all the instruments at his worse to give the Death Eaters a smashing headache.

Ron was only glad he didn't hear the cacophony. And he was thankful Peeves didn't try to drop Clarinda on anybody. He would have been quite upset if Clarinda's been used and abused like that.

* * *

  
A long time ago, Ron had felt like a nobody. He had tried so hard to rise above his family and be someone worthy. Now, as he walked up on stage, where Clarinda greeted him and a huge orchestra behind him, he was ready to show the rest of the world just how extraordinary he really was regardless of him being an ordinary man.

He heard the opening notes from the orchestra, and he raised his hands to perform Tchaikovsky's "Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-flat Minor". As he played, he allowed his emotions to express what he felt. He had found his true passion in life, and he finally felt like he could be somebody without trying. Plus, Aslan's theory on how music affects magic had been proven true in Ron's case. He wasn't a powerful wizard like Albus Dumbledore by a far stretch, but music did teach him the self-discipline he needed to become a better wizard and a better person.

When the song came to an end, he stood up to take a bow, and in the distance he saw a smiling Aslan in the back of the concert hall. With all the gratitude whirling inside of him, he nodded towards the ghost who did more than anybody to change his life.

The ghost had helped Ron find himself, and Ron will always be thankful.

**Author's Note:**

> When I decided to create Aslan, I combined Franz Liszt, Gustav Holst, and Alastor Moody into this unique character. Also, I know Aslan was from the Narnia series, but I named this ghost that because the name means "Lion", and I thought it was fitting for the ghost's hairstyle and him being a descendant of Gryffindor.  
> -Largo really does mean "very slow" in musical term.


End file.
